


House of Memories

by serenalunera



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Background Shane/Lori, Choking - Not the Sexual Kind, Dreams and Nightmares, Dysfunctional Relationships, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Ghost Sickness, Ghost!Daryl, Hallucinations, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Negaryl, One Night Stands, Past Negan/Daryl, Rickyl, Rickyl Writers' Group, Rickyl Writers' Group Bingo 2016, Slow Burn, Will Earn Explicit Tag Later, paranormal elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenalunera/pseuds/serenalunera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick finds solace in rebuilding an abandoned Victorian house after his divorce. However, old furniture and burnt down walls aren't the only things left there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paint, Gravel, and Unwanted Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> otherwise known as the ghost story, this is a tumblr fill for a ghost/living person AU sent to me on tumblr, as well as a fill for the "Cold to the Touch" square on my Bingo Card *happy dance*  
> i wasn't planning on making this a chaptered fic at first, but _some people_ from the RWG kept giving me ideas and, well... this happened. since the rest of the fic is outlined but not yet written, tags will be added as i go!  
>  i don't expect this fic to be too long, though, maybe 4-5 chapters or something along those lines :)  
> this work was beta-ed by the wonderful [KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic) ♥

“You sure you wanna do this by yourself? It's a lot of work.” Tobin muses as he reviews the blue prints of the house Rick just purchased, comparing them to the sketch of what his friend wants the house to look like once he's done renovating it.

“Yeah, I'm sure. I'll probably get a couple of friends to help out with the bigger stuff, but I'm pretty sure I can do it on my own. Been wanting to do something like it ever since I was a kid.” Rick smiles, his eyes roaming over the property, probably already seeing way more than the dilapidated house visibly crumbling in front of him.

“Well, if you're sure. You've got the green light from me. Just don't forget to give me a call when you start fiddling with the foundations so I can make sure you don't build it back up lopsided.” Tobin jokes, earning himself an offended scoff from Rick, who takes it in stride and starts laughing along with him.

Tobin leaves Rick to his own devices after that, free to roam through the run-down shack, already picturing what's going to stand in its place once he's done with it. It's not that big of a house, a classic two story Victorian – or what is left of it anyway – with a wrap-around porch and a backyard big enough to house a pretty decent vegetable garden, nothing more. But Rick fell in love with it the moment he set eyes on it, and has been dead set on building it back from the ground up ever since.

Rick had been coming here every day for the past week or so, clearing out most of the debris with the help of a handful of his friends, and always following the same pattern consisting of taking a walk around the property after a day's worth of cleaning up. The more he strolls around the house, the more he feels like he is here for a reason, and it's that feeling that keeps him going every single day. His loved ones think he's crazy for taking on a project that big all by his lonesome, but Rick finds it freeing. He's starting a new chapter in his life, and keeping his mind occupied while he works with his hands helps ground him, gives him a chance to prove to himself that this isn't all his life has come to be.

Most people seem to think he's having a mid-life crisis, that his divorce is making him feel inadequate and emasculated, and sure, there's a little bit of truth to that, but that's not all there is. It's a childhood dream as well as the passing fancy of something new, something that's finally _his_ in ways other things in his life have never been. Rick was never much of a materialistic man, he never even thought of his own car, his old house or the clothes on his back as _his_. He never considered his wife his possession, and neither did he regard his son as property. None of the things in his life were ever really his, and now that he finally has a chance to change that, he will.

\---  

“This house is fucking creepy, man. I don't get why you like it so much.” Glenn deadpans, shivers running down his spine the longer he stands in the charred shell of what used to be the living-room, at least according to the blue prints.

“I know it's not much right now, but I feel like I can make something great out of it.” Rick throws a smile Glenn's way, obviously in his element no matter how flawed the house looks, half collapsed over itself because of the fire that weaved its way through a little over ten years ago.

Rick remembers it like it was yesterday. It had been arson, and even though he and Shane had done their best to find the culprit, they never did end up finding him – or her. The main suspect had been one of the men who lived on the property, a twenty-something redneck with a bad name who was never found after the incident. The other resident, a bulky 38 year old man whose name he couldn't remember, had been the one to call the police about his house burning down, and had reportedly gone back to live in his hometown of Chesapeake, Virginia, upon learning how much it would cost him to get the house repaired after the fire.

Rick hadn't paid much mind to the house back then, the whole thing consumed by smoke and the smell of burnt wood and brick carrying for miles on end enough to deter him from picturing anyone living there, let alone himself. But coming across it now that it no longer held the promise of death had felt a lot like coming home, and the stutter in his heartbeat when he had signed the papers a lot like finding himself.

He has to admit the house seems a little eerie at times, the odd creaking sound surprising him time and time again. It happens more often in certain rooms, and Rick assumes it's because of the state of the walls and flooring, worse off in certain parts of the house – like the living-room, where the fire had started all those years ago. Coincidentally, that very room is one of the coldest ones, to the point where it feels like all the air has been sucked out of it the moment he steps through the door, surprising him and anyone close enough to feel the change in temperature.

Sometimes doors just opened or closed by themselves, the frequency increasing the closer he got to finishing the repairs, just like the bone-chilling sounds of what Rick likes to pretend is the house settling. It is old and drafty after all, so Rick never thought much of it. Up until the doors start slamming in his face, that is.

\---

The foundations have been redone, most of the house demolished only to be built back up – as easy as erasing pencil from paper, and painting on top of it. There is a lot to be done still, but the rest Rick is pretty sure he can handle on his own. That is what he keeps telling himself, anyway. It's not like he doesn't _need_ help, he just doesn't _want_ it – for the sole reason that his friends are starting to think he is going mental, and having them around really isn't helping his current state of mind. Not that anything can really help with that, since he keeps seeing things that are not there and hearing things that make no sense – or worse, feeling things he has no business feeling, and dreaming about things that are much too vivid to be made up.

The dreams are the worst. They are intense, and way too lifelike to be a product of his subconscious. Almost lucid, as if he really is the one experiencing what is being done to him – the _dream-him_ – to the point of feeling every scratch and every cut well after waking up. And no matter how sharp the pain feels and how agonizing the dreams are, Rick can never prevent any of it from happening, like a spectator in the theater of someone else's life. It's always linear, beginning with the same happy memories and ending in the same gruesome scenario, of which he can never be certain, the pain always too great for him to focus on what is happening to the man in the dream. A mantra of misery, agony and torture – the relentless torment of betrayal always waking him up with a start before Rick can even fathom where the sharp pain in the back of his head came from.

The shivers running down his spine and the scrapes appearing on various parts of his body are disturbing as well, but not as alarming as the dreams, and not nearly as frightening as the sudden flashes he gets whenever he touches – or does – certain things. The visions are worse in the living-room, nightmares in technicolor bursting before his eyes without warning whenever he steps foot over the threshold, disorienting him until he has no choice but to lean on the nearest wall and hope for the best. He is drenched in cold sweat by the time the hallucinations are over, in the same state every dream leaves him in – reeking of fear and anguish.

This is exactly what happens when he wakes up to hands running through his hair that night, startling him awake from yet another nightmare. It takes him a while to focus, the sensation of fingers threading through his curls not helping him concentrate on what's going on around him, let alone the fact that there is a stranger in his house currently stroking his hair. When he does manage to focus, though, his gaze falls on a pair of storm gray eyes he has never seen before. They are almost vacant, save for a hint of worry and something dark Rick can't quite put his finger on. Or wants to, for that matter, since he has no idea who the guy is and how he got in his house in the first place.

His first instinct is to reach for his Colt, safely tucked away in the drawer of his nightstand. When he reaches for it, however, icy fingers curl around his wrist and pin him to the bed, an unnatural amount of force behind the gesture. Rick fights the other man's hold with everything he has, only succeeding in making matters worse when the stranger starts putting more of his weight on top of Rick, straddling him to keep all four of his limbs under control. Rick snarls, knowing that the house is too far from others for anyone to hear him scream, but he does anyway, spitting venom at the man's abnormally pale face until a cold hand clamps down on his mouth, silencing him.

“Shh,” the other man coos, his voice distant and vaguely reminiscent of static, “he'll hear us.” The words alone shut Rick down almost completely, his mind reeling with the possibility of there being someone else in the house. The stranger removes his hand slowly, like he's afraid that Rick is going to scream again, his fingers lingering near his lips as the same empty eyes from earlier stare back at him.

“Who? Who's gonna hear us?” Rick tries, keeping his tone low and even so he doesn't spook the guy into shutting him up once again. He can hear his own pulse in his ears, the adrenaline coursing through his veins making his heart beat faster than it should, heightening his senses and dimming his fear.

“Negan.” The man breathes, the word reeking with fear. His eyes flash with terror for a brief second, the sight catching Rick off guard as the stranger puts his hand back on his face, this time simply resting his fingers on the center of his forehead until Rick's vision goes black.

\---

The first thing he sees is a face. It's familiar – he can't quite place it but he knows he's seen it before. There's a smile on that face, highlighted by a thick salt and pepper beard. It brings out his eyes, whiskey brown and searching, like they see everything but do not judge, something that looks a lot like affection shining through them. There are wrinkles lining these eyes, a few of them on his brow and the rest hidden beneath his graying facial hair. It's a handsome face, with a wide nose, beautifully shaped lips, thick eyebrows and golden skin. The man's hair is a dusty brown, short without being close cut, with wild strands sticking out in every direction. That's when Rick notices the man is in a bed, tangled in the sheets, and both the serene look on his face and the state of his hair make a lot of sense, now.

The next thing he sees when he looks around is the state of the room. It looks lived in, with only minimal clothing discarded on the floor – the clothes the man and his partner shed earlier, Rick assumes – and a few personal items on the walls and furniture. His gaze falls on the shelf right across from the bed, full of trophies and baseball memorabilia, and Rick spots what looks like a crossbow in the open closet next to the bed, with a baseball bat propped up right next to it. There are clothes there as well, most of them nondescript except for a vest with angel wings and a black leather jacket topped with a red scarf, both standing out more than the rest. There's a bookcase somewhere near the bed, with a few miniature car models decorating the shelves, mostly stacked with books and a few shiny rocks.

Rick is brought back from his observation by the sound of laughter near him, and that's when he notices he's not actually in bed with the guy, but next to it. He's in the room but not really, stuck in place as he stares at the scene unfolding before him, the stranger who woke him up curled up in the other man's arms, kissing him. It's like he's not even there, just watching two men sharing a moment and feeling incredibly out of place in the process, yet unable to avert his eyes. He tries to leave but he can't, helpless to watch as both men tumble out of bed, naked as the day they were born on their way to the bedroom door – Rick's vision going black the moment they cross it.

When his eyes can focus again, he's in a different room. The configuration of it reminds him of the living room he rebuilt from scratch, and the sight of a couch and a TV stand tells him he's right. The light is turned off, and the house is silent except for a couple of muffled voices coming from upstairs. They're loud enough to be heard down here, so Rick assumes the conversation must be heated. His guess turns out to be right once again when he hears hurried steps down the stairs accompanied by the sound of something hard hitting the railing repeatedly, what sounds like a screaming match following the two men from earlier into the living room.

The youngest of the two sets a suitcase down on the floor – probably responsible for the noise on the stairs – before rummaging through cupboards, looking for something. The other man gets impatient, slamming a drawer shut before grabbing a hold of the younger man, only to be pushed away rather violently. The older man tries again, this time more forcefully, containing his lover and using his strength against him to pin him to the nearest wall. The younger man evades him, kicking and screaming words Rick can't quite seem to put together, turning their argument into a full on fist fight, everything happening too fast for Rick to process it – up until the glass ashtray sitting on the chest of drawers falls to the ground, and shatters at their feet.

And then nothing.


	2. Smoke and Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there. have chapter two along with my blood, sweat, and tears.  
> i updated the tags so please be mindful of them!  
> and i would also like to thank my wonderful beta [KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic) for helping me, encouraging me, and just being an awesome person in general ♥
> 
> edit: thought i'd add the floral meaning here for good measure  
> hyacinth, purple – i am sorry, please forgive me, sorrow  
> hydrangea, blue – thank you for understanding, frigidity, heartlessness  
> petunia, purple – resentment, anger, your presence soothes me

Sleep evades Rick like a scornful lover after his encounter with the strange young man in his bedroom. None of it has to do with insomnia, and everything to do with him avoiding closing his eyes at any cost. He looks terrible, deathly pale and gaunt because no matter what he eats, it hardly ever stays down – memories of what the stranger showed him crashing through him so violently he finds himself dry heaving in the bathroom more often than not. He feels horrible and preyed upon, his eyes betraying him whenever he thinks he can catch a glance of the young man in the corner of a room, only to spin around and see nothing. His mind hurts so much that his whole body feels like fractured glass, visions of darker times swimming behind his eyelids every time he blinks.

He can't catch a break, and it's killing him.

Maggie calls him one afternoon, asking if he wants to come over for dinner, and Rick almost says yes, only to be stopped by the reflection of the stranger's eyes in the mirror above the fireplace. The same vacant gray orbs he saw above him weeks before, but this time there's no fear in them – only anger. The sight makes him shiver and he hangs up, making up a bullshit excuse before doing so, his gaze never leaving the young man's through the looking glass. He stares, completely enraptured by the other man as Rick watches him make his way towards the couch he's sitting on, hardly believing what he sees in the mirror – until a bony hand settles on his shoulder and chills him to the core. Rick gasps, the stranger's touch so cold it feels like it's burning right through him, clawing away layers of his skin and tearing through muscles until icy fingers curl around his spine and squeeze the breath out of him, leaving him with shudders coursing through his body like electric currents.

The stranger notices, and he removes his hand from Rick's shoulder with a frown, brows knitted together in a show of worry Rick can't help but believe. The man looks torn between anger and disappointment – in Rick, or in himself? Rick doesn't know. All he knows is that the man is now circling the couch, no longer visible in the mirror's reflection. A distant sense of panic settles low in Rick's spine, his heart starting to thud in his ears the longer the stranger stays out of sight, but Rick is too afraid to so much as turn to look at him. There's something not quite right about the man, something eerie and reminiscent of what goes on in the house whenever Rick closes his eyes and lets himself _feel_ it. He almost jumps when the young man finally gets back in his line of sight, unsure fingers tracing the edge of the mantelpiece, feeling the bumps and ridges until they catch on a dent.

All hell breaks loose then, the room's temperature dropping in the seconds it takes the stranger to rack his nails down the indentation, splintering the wood before sending everything on top of it crashing to the ground. Rick's grandmother's vase shatters on impact, littering the floor with shards of porcelain and withering flowers, water spilling all over and seeping through the cracks in the wooden flooring like blood coiling in the creases of one's hand. The other man turns towards Rick then, fury painted all over his gray complexion and glinting in his steel-colored eyes for all but a moment, a perfect opposite of the horror-laced surprise sinking into Rick's tired face. Red-rimmed eyes widen as the stranger approaches him, and Rick scrambles to get to his feet – but the man is on him before he can even take a step away from the couch, pushing him right back down and straddling him, and it would all feel like déjà-vu if not for the hand that closes around his throat and _squeezes._

The man's grip is tight and Rick is gasping for air, clawing at the young man's arm even as his brain screams at him to go for the eyes and not hold back, but the pressure on his throat lessens almost as fast as it started and Rick inhales sharply, filling his lungs to capacity and then some. He doesn't have the force to move and doesn't feel like he needs to just yet, the confused frown contorting the stranger's face as he stares at his hands – like he can't quite believe what he just did – is enough for Rick to feel somewhat secure in his position underneath him. Vacant eyes meet glassy ones the moment they look away from trembling hands, and the terror that should be in Rick's shines in the young man's instead, even more so when Rick reaches up with equally shaky fingers and wraps them around ice-cold wrists, fully expecting to feel somewhat of a heartbeat and swallowing harshly when he doesn't.

Something ominous flashes in the stranger's eyes and then Rick is right back in that bedroom – the one that looks like his own but really isn't – watching a scene he doesn't understand and shouldn't be watching unfold, with the same whiskey eyes and megawatt smile from weeks before. Only this time there is no sunlight filtering through the blinds, and Rick can only guess what the movements beneath the covers entail, shadows of two bodies coming together painted on the wall by the moon shining overhead, barely illuminating the room as it bleeds through the open window. Rick finds no meaning in what he sees, only lust and what he would feel inclined to call love if he had more insight – but the illusion shatters as soon as he starts thinking too much about it, and he suddenly finds himself in a living room that isn't his own with shards of glass at his feet and blood splattered on the walls.

There is no sound, just white noise in the background of what looks like a battlefield devastated by gods, two bodies crashing together in the middle of furniture that is either broken or overturned, like two deadly waves rolling into one another, leaving only destruction in their wake. Rick recognizes a pair of deep bronze eyes in the commotion, and if they had glinted with fire as the man drove into his lover in the throes of passion earlier, they now shone with so much anger Rick finds it hard to believe they belong to the same person at all. He looks like an animal, muscles coiled tight and ready to inflict pain as large hands wrap around a slender throat, shoving at the other man until he has him pinned against the wall. Strong fingers dig into his neck hard enough to bruise and for Rick to brace himself for the sound of a windpipe crushing, even though he knows it won't ever reach his ears – even more so when the younger man manages to throw his attacker off of him and lunges at him, the violence so surreal it reminds Rick of a couple of beasts fighting over a kill.

\---

When Rick comes back to himself, he feels so nauseous he thinks he might pass out. But a cool, somewhat familiar hand on his forehead brings him back, grounding him in the here and now instead of the sordid memories his closed eyelids provide. His eyes flutter open and are immediately met by the listless storm brewing in the stranger's, a mixture of hurt and concern dancing behind a curtain of dark lashes. It takes Rick a minute to realize that the young man hasn't moved at all, except maybe for the cold palm pressed against his head, slowly sliding downwards to cup the side of his face and trace the reddening fingerprints blooming on his neck. The difference in temperature between the other man's skin and his own makes Rick shiver, goosebumps pearling all over his body at how intimate the contact feels – however fleeting it is. The feeling of textured flesh beneath his fingertips makes the stranger start and remove his hand, only to let it hover between them as his eerily vacant eyes search Rick's.

“Why are you showing me all this?” Rick breathes, voice raspy and far from confident as he takes a tentative hold of the stranger's wrist, mirroring the position of his hand on the young man's other arm and bringing both down so his palms lay flat against Rick's chest.

“Somebody needs to know.” It's barely above a whisper, painfully hoarse as if the man weren't used to talking. And he probably wasn't, judging by the state of him: voice rough with static and skin paler than marble, dark circles for miles and tousled, overgrown hair creating shadows all over the man's angular face, adding to the sunken-in effect already covering most of the visible parts of his body.

“Know what?” Rick muses as he loses himself in the vast emptiness of the stranger's iron-colored eyes, shards of pain flickering through the pools of liquid metal until there's nothing but agony reflected in them.

“What he did to me.” There's a sullen look on the young man's face, silver eyes dulling and fragile skin cracking all over like broken porcelain when his brows knit together. His dry lips are pulled tight into a frown, a mix of sadness, anger, and a feeling Rick can't quite read painted in broad streaks on his ashen face.

“What he did to... What do you mean? What happened to you?” Rick swallows, unsure of what the man's words imply, afraid to put them together and realize he has, indeed, gone over the deep end. Because if the stranger means what he thinks he means, then there is no questioning the state of Rick's sanity anymore, and all that's left for him to do is pack his things and check himself into the nearest psychiatric facility.

“Don't you get it?” The young man's frown deepens, more of his translucent skin splitting and exposing the splintered bones underneath. Stone-cold eyes flash with what can only be described as madness before the man lunges forward, Rick closing his eyes and bracing himself for an impact that never comes.

When he opens his eyes, the stranger is gone and the smell of copper permeates the air.

\---

Rick finds it difficult to sleep after his encounter with the stranger, only managing to work in a couple of restless hours fragmented in small increments over the course of the night. He spends most of his time staring intently at the ceiling, flashes of dark gray eyes and colorless skin dancing behind his eyelids whenever he dares closing them for more than a few seconds. He stays that way until the light of day starts filtering through the blinds, his body on auto-pilot on his way to the bathroom. He speeds through his shower, uneasy at the idea of staying naked and vulnerable for extended periods of time, and gets dressed briskly, only stopping to take a look at himself when it's time to try and tame his hair.

What he sees baffles him. It's not the pallor of his skin, the dark circles lining his eyes like coal or the fact that his facial hair is so unkempt he is now more beard than man. No, what startles him is the discoloration on his neck, how the flesh is marred with finger-shaped bruises so dark against his dull complexion they look like streaks of black blood. Rick swallows at the sight, remembering the events of the previous day way too clearly for his liking, and it's with a shudder that he traces the marks with the tips of his fingers. He winces and drops his palm, the feeling of a hand constricting his throat still too fresh in his mind. Another shiver courses through his body at the memory, and he leaves the bathroom without sparing another glance to his reflection.

His morning goes by slowly, a couple of bites out of a full bowl of cereal and he sinks down in the couch cushions, his laptop balanced on his lap. Rick hadn't gone back to work since he moved in, a bullshit leave of absence covering for what he feels is him reaching the brink of insanity. Especially now that he finds himself researching things he thought he would never have to wonder about: like how to determine if a house is haunted, how to spot a ghost and most importantly, how to get rid of one. A tremor runs down his spine every time he recognizes a sign of haunting, like sudden changes in temperatures, moving objects, strange sounds, physical reminders, and last on the list, _apparitions._

Rick swallows thickly as he clicks through page after page of ghost stories and theories, each one more terrifying than the last, and all of them ending in all kinds of alarming ways for the person haunted. Mentions of flying objects and broken furniture makes him glance towards the fireplace in front of him, and his heart skips a beat at the sight of his grandmother's vase sitting proudly on the mantelpiece, garnished with a bouquet of purple hyacinths and petunias, along with a touch of blue hydrangeas, the whole arrangement screaming one word and one word only: _apology_. Rick forces himself to blink, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes until his vision spots with white before focusing back on the hearth, his heart rate speeding up the longer he stares at what he _knows_ shouldn't be there.

He inhales deeply before setting his computer aside, counting his breaths as he makes his way to the fireplace, stopping a few paces away from it to stare at the vase. Little cracks litter the porcelain, the pattern reminiscent of the stranger's skin after his outburst the night before. The once pristine ceramic almost resembles marble now, with its thin silvery lines spiraling all around the base like snakes, the narrow streaks taking away from its overwhelming perfection and giving it the character it lacked before. Rick's gaze falls to the bouquet it holds, carefully arranged flowers in full bloom, shades of blue, violet and purple complimenting the fractured china. The choice is confusing, the colors too similar to have been handpicked for their aesthetic properties – as if the plants had been chosen regardless of the way they looked and more in favor of what they represented. It is subtle, meant for the eyes of someone who knows enough about the intricacies of flower language to decipher an otherwise well-hidden message.

Rick knows for a fact that hyacinths mean one is asking for forgiveness, having bought his fair share of apologetic bouquets for all the years he was married. He's a little less sure about the hydrangeas, but he thinks they mean something along the lines of “thank you for understanding” or a similar sentiment. The petunias, however, only succeed in confusing him. If memory serves right, they're a symbol of anger and resentment, and Rick has trouble understanding why the young man would choose to add these to the arrangement unless they hold a meaning he is not aware of. He doesn't linger on the flowers once he catches sight of the streaks scattered all over the mirror behind the vase, his brow furrowing as he wonders how they could have gotten there, seeing as he remembers cleaning the glass only a couple days prior – and never going near it after that.

He sighs, about to go and get a rag to clean up the smudges when he remembers where the stranger had stood the night before, flashes of rage-filled eyes and bared teeth pinning him before the fireplace in an instant. Lifting his gaze back up, Rick stares at the looking glass as though it could break if he tried hard enough, his brows knitted together in both confusion and anger. That's when he sees it. The clumsy outline of a letter slightly off-center of the mirror, screaming at him to investigate it now that it has caught his eye. Rick blinks a couple of times to make sure he's not seeing things, that his mind isn't providing him with more of the unwanted fantasies he's been experiencing these past few weeks, and when his gaze finds the symbol again he takes a deep breath and lets it out, fogging up the mirror until a single word appears.

_SORRY_.


	3. Fear on Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i can do when i look at this chapter is tell myself "this is gonna be a lot more than 5 chapters" *deep sigh*  
> thanks again to [KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic) for beta-ing this fic, you guys have no idea how wonderful she is ♥

A week flies by before Rick finally goes back to work. He's feeling a little less horrible these days, possibly due to the lack of dreams, hallucinations, and visits from the unspoken inhabitant of his home. His appetite is slowly returning, so he and Michonne happily swing by their favorite burger joint for lunch after an uneventful morning on patrol. Rick doesn't mind the change of pace and even finds himself laughing at the jokes his colleague makes, appreciating her wit and how expertly she avoids bringing up the subject of his sudden decision to change partners. He didn't exactly blame Shane for putting the moves on Lori, especially since his childhood best friend had asked for his permission before doing so, ready to back off if Rick so much as _seemed_ like he was against the idea. No, he didn't blame him or her or anyone at all, except maybe himself, for allowing his marriage to crumble over itself like a house of cards – beautiful but oh so fragile, at the mercy of the faintest gust of wind. 

He holds no grudge against Shane (or Lori for that matter) but the subject is still a little sore and it still feels a little too soon, even if months have passed since his discussion with his best friend. Rick knows he can't avoid talking about it forever – especially with the man in question – but that doesn't mean he's not going to try. He doesn't tell Michonne that, of course. Because as much as she prefers to stay out of situations like these, she's a beautiful soul who yearns to help in any way she can, and Rick could use a little less meddling and a little more taking his mind off things. Which is exactly why he requested her as his new partner, and judging by the abdominal cramps he's already feeling from laughing so hard, his choice was the right one. They don't talk about Shane, or even mention his name in passing. They talk about Tara, the new recruit who came in just a couple of weeks after Rick went on his leave, about how promising she is and how her and Denise – the EMT who has been working with them for well over a year now – seem to be hitting it off already. 

They talk about Glenn and Maggie, who are still sneaking around stealing kisses at the station even though it's been two years since they started dating and two months since they bought a house together. That particular fact brings about the subject of Rick's new home, which is thankfully brushed off by a very convenient call on the radio. They spend most of the afternoon chasing and interrogating a drug dealer they know is tied to a bigger, more dangerous man, and Rick ends up stuck with a mountain of paperwork to make up for his extensive leave of absence. He tries to go through it without getting distracted, but the closer the hands on the clock get to 5pm, the more his mind takes him places he's not supposed to go. He can't help but think about what – or who – may or may not be waiting for him at home, and quickly comes to the realization that he doesn't necessarily want to find out.

By the time 5pm rolls in, Rick is tired from his shift and more than eager to slide into bed and sleep until the dead rises and the world falls apart – yet _something_ keeps him firmly seated at his desk, coffee in hand and eyes fixated on the computer screen. He barely registers himself generating a search and typing out the words “arson” and “2006” into the database, but once one particular result catches his eye there is nothing stopping him from clicking on it. Images of his house consumed by fire come up, flames so high they reach the stars, contrasting sharply with the night sky. He recognizes the charred shell left behind by the inferno, distant memories of the investigation coming back to him in riddles the longer he stares at the pictures. Pulling up the reports, Rick gets lost in them. They help him remember how odd the house's resident had been, his testimony unshakable and his voice almost too confident to be natural. The memory compels him to take a look at the file they have of the guy, and his eyes go wide when he sees the man's name. 

_Negan Walker._

Rick zooms in on the mugshot they have of him, and releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding when the same warm whiskey eyes from his visions stare right back at him – only this time they're cold and calculating, dark circles so black they look stamped on. Rick swallows the knot in his throat at the sight, vivid flashes of violence and passion all molded into one pulsing behind his eyelids. He screws his eyes shut, chasing away the images dancing in front of him with the pads of his fingers. When he opens them again, his gaze falls on the other name listed on the report. _Daryl Dixon_. It sounds familiar somehow, and Rick is pretty sure he has arrested a Dixon at least once or twice in his career, even if the first name eludes him for now. He pulls up the man's picture without a second thought, and all the training in the world couldn't have prepared him for what he sees displayed on the computer screen.

Sea blue eyes bore into his from across the barrier of pixels, and if Rick weren't living and breathing in that very moment, he would swear his heart had just come to a stop. The man's hair is hanging in shaggy strands over his forehead and wide shoulders, enhancing the dark blue of his irises with its soft chestnut undertones. His skin is tan and smooth, and the man looks even younger than the mid-twenties his file claims he was at the time. He looks more like a boy than a man, his features so sharp Rick swears they've been carved out of marble and yet still soft enough to pass for a girl's in the right light. His lips are an enticing shade of mauvy pink, thin but kissable, the mole right above them making Rick's stomach flip just as he remembers _where_ he has seen that mole before.

Fleeting images of cracked, sickly pale skin clash with the bronze color the picture reflects back at him, lifeless gray orbs appearing where deep blue eyes should be. Ashy, almost charcoal black hair replaces the soft brown strands, outgrowing them enough to hide parts of the dark lacerations inked all over the man's face and neck. Rick sucks in a breath at the realization that the man in the picture and the one permanently tied to his house are one and the same – and everything the stranger has said suddenly comes crashing back into him. It all makes sense now, the full body fear rattling the young man's body at the mere mention of the brown-eyed man, the perpetual sadness following him like a ball and chain, and the anger shaking him to his very core at the thought of what was done to him. It suddenly dawns on Rick that whatever he thought were nightmares and hallucinations weren't the product of his imagination, but rather Daryl Dixon's memories.

The memories of the day he died.

\---

Rick doesn't even bother changing when he gets back home, simply chucking his jacket on the couch in the parlor before he starts pacing the length of the room like a caged lion. He never had to call for the stranger before, always too afraid of what would happen if he did show up. Besides, Rick never knew how to get his attention, and ever since the nightmares and random visions had stopped he really had no reason to try and communicate with the young man. But now that his mind is no longer a jumbled mess of love and violence entwined like snakes, and that he has information he didn't have access to before, Rick finds himself curious – curious enough to look for the other man and get as many answers out of him as he can.

“I know you're here, Daryl. You can come out.” Rick grits out, voice laced with authority as his pacing comes to a stop in front of the fireplace. He knows the stranger heard him the moment goosebumps start raising on his arms, his assumption proven true when a glance in the mirror shows him the desaturated blur of a man standing right behind him. Rick whips around, ready to start spewing questions, but the fearful look on the younger man's face stops him dead in his tracks.

“How do you know my name?” Daryl's voice is small and distant, his dull gray eyes scanning Rick without so much as blinking as he wraps fissured arms around himself in a protective gesture. It feels like the stranger is looking into his soul, and the deputy finds his body responding with a shudder.

“I looked the house up. You used to live here with that Negan guy. You two were a thing, right?” Rick presses with an edge to his voice he's never heard before, his tone almost accusatory even though it's very far from what he feels. His emotions are pushed out of him tenfold by something he can't quite pinpoint, and the young man responds with a sudden, heart-wrenching flinch.

“Don't say his name. You don't know shit.” Daryl regains his composure with a snarl, bony shoulders curling outward instead of inward in a defensive display. His eyes shine silver with a mad glint, his crumbling body coiled tight with aggression.

“That's where you're wrong. I _know_ shit. I know what you showed me and I know he skipped town and left you for dead.” Rick spits, and there's a menacing quality to his voice that wasn't there before, rage that's not his own washing over him in angry waves. 

He feels his back hit the mantelpiece more than he feels Daryl's hands on him, clutching the collar of his uniform in bone-frayed fingers and shoving him repeatedly into the hard wood of the fireplace. There are watercolors of fury painted all over the young man's face, his translucent skin tearing in shades of red, purple, and black – a perfect mirror of the crumbling feeling that settles deep into Rick's chest at the realization of what he's done. The rhythm of Daryl's assault falters and the force behind his hits dulls before long, just like the wrath contorting his features as it metamorphoses into bone-chilling sorrow. Daryl's whole body is shaking by the time his momentum is gone, wrecked with bitter memories as he lets himself be pulled into Rick's arms, all the fight gone from his trembling, feather-light frame.

Rick shushes him, cradling him against his chest as if he were afraid to break him, even though he knows all too well he can't hurt something that's already broken. Daryl's body feels glacial in comparison to his own, the close proximity making his skin tingle and the blood in his veins turn icy. Rick wills himself to power through it for Daryl, even if his bones feel frozen beneath his flesh and frost starts to coat his paling lips. Violent sobs rattle the stranger's body still, each whimper bringing forth visions of past events, fleeting images of amber eyes barely shining behind a thick veil of hatred, crushed glass dripping with blood, and wicked flames consuming everything in their wake. Rick gasps as the burn he feels coursing through his whole body clashes with the chills rocking him to his very core, numb fingers tightening in Daryl's too long hair in response. The young man pulls back at the sound, eyes wide and filled with so much misery they appear near expressionless. The onslaught of pain makes the cracks on his face bleed with something dark, and silvery streaks run down his sunken in cheeks.

Rick bites back the sound that's threatening to spill from his lips at the sight, choosing instead to brave his leftover fears and wipe the tears away with the pad of his thumb. There is a dull sense of gratefulness in the stranger's liquid gray eyes, and a flicker of something Rick is having trouble finding words for. Enlightenment comes closest, but even then Rick isn't sure that's what it really is. He doesn't recall seeing anything like it in Daryl's eyes before that very moment, just like he doesn't remember ever feeling unafraid in the young man's presence – and yet here he is, holding him and reassuring him in the wake of yet another outburst. The silence between them isn't uncomfortable, but Rick longs to break it, to apologize like he's never apologized to anyone before, and maybe coax the other man into telling him his story even though Rick doesn't have the power to do anything but listen.

“I'm sorry about what I said. I don't know what came over me... I just wanted to talk.” Rick tries, his voice soft and filled with remorse as he absent-mindedly runs his thumb over the stranger's cheekbone in small, barely-there circles. The touch doesn't even register in him, even as the ice of the young man's skin bites at his fingertips. 

“I did that – I think. You weren't angry, I was. I ain't stupid, I know what happened to me. It's just... Hearing you say it, it fucked me up.” Daryl grits out, his voice even rougher than it was earlier, brows knitting together but only barely cracking the skin this time.

“What did he do to you, Daryl? What happened that night?” Rick regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. The young man looks at him with a muted blend of ire and disappointment for all but a second – and that's all it takes for the moment to shatter like glass on a tiled floor, Daryl breaking away from Rick's hold in a flurry of anger.

“What do you care, huh? You can't do shit about it.” Daryl spits, taking a step backward for every one Rick takes forward, distancing himself from the deputy as much as he can. The space between them is sizzling with tension and Daryl's hands are glowing faintly from where they rest against his sides, crackles of electricity hissing at his fingertips whenever the other man starts getting too close.

“Daryl, I can't help you if you don't let me.” Rick pleads, extending a desperate hand forward in hopes of reaching out to the stranger and calming the rage he feels simmering all around them. It's the wrong move and the air tightens in response, the temperature dropping violently until the bite of the cold wraps itself around Rick's bones and grinds them together. 

“I'm fucking dead, asshole. Ain't nothing left to help.” Daryl snarls, baring bloody teeth before disappearing into the nearest wall in a flutter of electricity, leaving the other man rooted to the spot and speechless. Fire cracks in the hearth beside him and Rick jumps, a knot forming in his throat when he realizes he doesn't remember lighting it in the first place.


	4. No Such Thing as a Perfect Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm very sorry for taking so long to update this time guys. life kinda kicked my ass, face and lady parts this past month. lots of family stuff and health issues, my beloved cat passed away a week ago and now finals are making me want to crawl into a hole and die... so my solution to all that was to procrastinate and write chapter 4 in one go. #priorities  
> as always, a huge thank you to [KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic) for beta-ing and supporting me so much these past few weeks ♥

Rick makes a stop in front of the mirror in the lobby before he leaves the next morning. He takes a long hard look at himself, his dark circles so bold it feels like they're staring right back at him. He looks exhausted and unkempt, his usual 5 o'clock shadow grown into something wild and untamable, his curls messy and way too long for police regulations. Rick barely slept last night, too worried about what Daryl might do after his outburst, flashes of all consuming fire pulsing behind his eyelids every time he tried to close his eyes making it impossible for him to get any kind of rest. He can already picture the concern painted all over Lori's face, laced with her voice and lingering throughout their awkward embrace when he'll swing by their place – no, hers – to pick Carl up for the day. He'll probably see the exact same shade of worry distorting Shane's features when his best friend comes by to take Lori out to lunch, and the innocent beginnings of understanding on Carl's face when the boy jumps into his arms, overjoyed to _finally_ spend some time with his father.

Sighing to himself, Rick runs a hand through the mess that makes up his hair, half hoping to tame it as he muses over the events of the previous evening. Having spent most of the night rolling around in his bed mulling over how badly things had gone, Rick had had a lot of time to reflect on the words he had said and how out of line he had been to demand explanations from Daryl like that. The other man was visibly hurting, recoiling from the mere mention of his previous lover's name as if the word was somehow capable of burning right through him – and it probably could, given the way Rick suspected their relationship had ended. Rick had been insensitive, pushing Daryl's buttons until they snapped right out of his hand and scattered all over the floor. For that he felt like he needed to apologize, which Rick guessed wouldn't be an easy feat, even more so given the fact that he couldn't exactly do so in the same way he would with someone who was still _alive_.

One last glance at his reflection is all Rick needs for an idea to pop into his mind, a stupid little smile stretching the corners of his mouth at the thought of what he's about to do. He takes a couple of steps closer to the mirror, bending down slightly to fog up the glass with a deep exhale. He writes the first thing that comes to mind, something short, silly and as honest as he can make it without scribbling a novel down the entire glass panel. He admires his handiwork until it disappears, only unintelligible smears remaining as he throws on his jacket, grabs his keys and heads out.

Pale gray eyes watch him go from the other side of the room, only looking away to glance at the leftover streaks curiously once Rick is well on his way to his ex-wife's place. Daryl takes a few tentative steps towards the looking glass, pausing for a few moments before mirroring the other man's gesture from earlier and blowing on the spot where Rick's script lies undecipherable.

_Sorry, I'm a dick._

\---

Lori gives Rick a respite of approximately five minutes before she's on him about how awful he looks. She's polite about it, asking him if he's eating well, if he would like one of her home cooked meals to take home for the night, if his new mattress isn't too hard for him to sleep comfortably – and even if he needs her to come by and dust the place up a little so he can focus on himself a little more, and _maybe_ get a haircut. She shows all the concern of a doting partner and Rick briefly wonders if she'll ever stop feeling like his wife or if he's doomed to look at her with all the remorse of a prisoner on death row for the rest of his life. He brushes her off gently, although he accepts the casserole she offers because like _hell_ is he going to pass up on her lemon roast chicken even once in his life. Carl is practically glued to him from the moment Rick steps foot in the house, his eagerness rubbing off on his father and wiring him up in ways he hasn't felt since well before his marriage to Lori ended.

They end up sticking around until Shane shows up exactly five minutes early, looking like a proper Prince Charming as he jumps out of his jeep with a spring in his step and a dashing smile on his lips. His hair is starting to grow out from the buzzcut he'd given himself around the time Lori and Rick divorced, still shaven closely at the sides but beginning to fill up nicely at the top, making him look like a bad boy in all the ways Rick always thought Lori hated. Times change, Rick muses as Shane shakes his hand enthusiastically, polite enough not to initiate a hug, be too familiar with Carl or kiss Lori in front of him. Rick can see the attraction between them clear as day as they stare at each other with little smiles turning the corners of their mouths upwards, fingers interlocked as shyly as he's ever seen Shane hold a woman's hand. He chooses that moment to take his leave, promising to have Carl back home before dinner as they make their way to the car.

He's mostly silent on the road to the batting cages, mainly listening to whatever story Carl is telling him happened at school and sometimes at home, relishing in the lull of the boy's voice after weeks of going without it tickling his eardrums. It takes Rick a little bit to get back into the swing of things but once he does, he feels the most relaxed he has in weeks, the boy's smiles contagious and his happiness seeping into Rick's bones enough to calm the deep-set ache of worry that has been making a home inside of him ever since he started working on his house a few months back. Rick loses himself in the presence of his son, finding himself seeking physical contact more often than he used to. Even though Carl is getting to that age where hugging one's parents is starting to sound a little repulsing, he indulges him and responds in kind, more than content to bask in his father's affection after being deprived of it for so long.

Rick entertains the idea of having his son stay over at his place for a solid two seconds before he has to remind himself that he's not the only resident in the house, and that the other man might not be as keen on the idea as he is. He drives Carl back to Lori's regretfully, a knot forming in his throat at the mere thought of not being able to see his son for another week – at best. Fighting tears is harder than it's ever been when he all but crushes Carl in his arms, promising to come back soon before leaving with a warm casserole in one hand and a full case of beer in the other – courtesy of Shane. He drives without really seeing the road for a long while, only focusing back when he can see the outline of his house peeking out behind the tall trees surrounding the property. After that he's on auto-pilot once more, parking clinically in his driveway before making his way into the lobby and tossing his keys on top of the small chest of drawers collecting dust along with the full-length mirror propped up right next to it.

Smudges on the mirror catch his eye as he shrugs out of his jacket, and Rick is briefly reminded of the silly note he'd left for Daryl that morning. Blowing warm air onto the glass, Rick half expects to see angry scribbles instead of his message, only to be taken aback by what he sees on the mirror's surface. His memo is still there, and a lone word lies stark right underneath it in response. _Yup._ It's short and to the point, quite like Rick's own writing above it. It holds as much meaning as one word can, and there's a hint of sarcasm hidden behind the period at the end that makes Rick's lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile. This doesn't mean Daryl has forgiven him, far from it, but what it means is that the other man has at least acknowledged Rick's apology and decided to respond to it instead of flat out ignoring the deputy and torturing him into an early grave in the process.

Saying Rick feels instantly better would be pushing things, but it does help him go on with his evening as he heats up the casserole Lori made for him and downs a couple of beers in the silence of his kitchen. He doesn't even bother turning on the TV that evening, opting for a quick shower and an early night with a book in his lap instead. Even then it's hard to shake the memories of what it felt like to hold his son in his arms again, to stare into eyes that looked exactly like his save for the perpetual numbness holding its ground in the confines of his irises. Rick's thoughts are so focused on Carl he finds himself rereading the same line over and over again, thoughts of his son's bright smiles and enthusiastic story-telling keeping him unfocused despite his best efforts. He's about to give up and call it a night when he starts picturing the boy decorating his room – so far untouched – with posters and memorabilia, a familiar pair of blank gray eyes looming in the background even in the short bout of daydreaming he allows himself.

“I ain't gonna eat your kid, you know.” Rick jumps at the sound of Daryl's raspy voice so close to his ear, eyes widening as he sees the man on the bed next to him, sitting cross-legged with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands dangling between them – the picture of relaxation.

It takes Rick a moment to recover from the shock of finding the other man in his _bed_ after the events of the previous night, his brain working a mile a minute to try and decipher Daryl's thought process in case the other man poses a threat. His posture is too casual to indicate imminent danger and the tone of his voice too nonchalant to be interpreted as veiled intimidation. The look Daryl shoots him is the most composed Rick has ever seen on him, and that thought alone makes him relax slightly into the pillows propped up behind his back. He's tempted to put his book away, maybe lay it on the nightstand just out of reach, but ultimately decides against it as he starts to fiddle with the dog-eared pages, nodding along at whatever Daryl had said about not being a threat for his child, silently urging him to expand on the subject.

“Ain't his fault his dad decided to buy a house with a dead guy living in it. He ain't the one who can't take a fucking hint when it's thrown in his face.” There's a playful hint to Daryl's voice now, the little smirk dancing on his lips so out of character Rick has to take a few seconds to come up with an answer.

“So what you're saying is you'd be okay if he stayed over from time to time?” Rick refrains from biting his lip, feeling like he's pressing his luck with every single word that comes out of his mouth. He's strangely fine with endangering himself in Daryl's presence, but he doesn't want to push the younger man into accepting something he's not comfortable with, especially with his child's life on the line.

“I'm saying I won't touch him if he does. Kid shouldn't have to deal with his dad's friendly neighborhood ghost.” Daryl throws a quick glance Rick's way before dropping his gaze, fiddling with the fraying material of his torn jeans to keep himself occupied.

“Wouldn't exactly call you _friendly_ but okay. I'll keep that in mind.” A small, tentative smile graces Rick's lips as he talks, fully expecting Daryl to react to his words and silently bracing himself for whatever outburst he knows is coming his way.

“Really? Thought out of the two of us _you_ were the dick.” Daryl arches a brow, that same hint of playfulness from before showing in his words as well as the small smirk stretching across his cracked lips. He looks different tonight, his body still holds the same ragged quality as it did before but the anger he knows is buried deep inside of him isn't as palpable as it usually is, at least not enough to freeze Rick to the core in such proximity.

“Yeah... I guess I deserved that one.” Rick chuckles softly, his gaze roaming over the small smile he can see painted over the other man's frighteningly pale lips for as long as he thinks Daryl will allow. He finds himself briefly wondering what Daryl looked like when he was happy and alive, fleeting images of two men sharing a moment in a bed flashing before his eyes until he can _almost_ picture the younger man's smiling face, only for the illusion to be shattered by Daryl's shuddering breath.

“You ain't gonna let that go, are you?” He sounds annoyed, his features hardening into something Rick knows first-hand is the beginning of anger, and the deputy mentally slaps himself for thinking for one second that anything going on in his head might stay private in Daryl's presence, given the fact that he had accessed his mind to show him bits and pieces of his past more than once.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to think about you like that. I just... I know nothing about you, you know? I know what you've told me and what was in the police report but beyond that... you're a mystery to me.” Rick tries, his nervousness getting the best of him as he worries his lower lip between his teeth, his hands clenched tight around the paperback in his lap.

There's a long sigh on Daryl's part before the younger man does something Rick didn't expect at all from him: he unfolds his legs from under him and lies down, settling on the bed alongside Rick with his head propped up against the wooden frame. Rick stays silent, staring at the wall in front of him hard enough to hallucinate blood pouring down the surface in carmine rivulets, staining the cream wallpaper red. A slight wave of panic runs through him when he realizes none of this is in his head and there actually _is_ blood dripping down the bedroom wall, but Daryl's icy fingers curling around his wrist are enough to keep him still and anchored to the bed. Rick's anxiety starts ebbing away with every tentative circle the pad of the other man's thumb makes over his pulse point, the gravelly tones of Daryl's voice grounding him to the present as he starts speaking.

“I met him at a bar.”


	5. Collecting Moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i'm alive (barely)  
> this chapter is slightly longer than usual so hopefully that sort of makes up for the time it took me to update this fic, but as i stated in my previous update life isn't too kind right now so this is the best i could do with what i was given.  
> thanks once again to [KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic) for beta-ing this fic and being there for me this past month, this fic probably wouldn't even be there if it weren't for her ♥

“Why's that douchebag looking at us like that?” Merle grunts around a mouthful of peanuts, nodding in the direction of a big burly guy in a leather jacket at the far end of the room before washing them down with a swig of his lukewarm beer. He's at the bar, sitting sideways on his stool to keep an eye on the people around him. Joe's bar being known to attract mostly low lives and guys with anger management issues, the mix and match of life-weary men and strung-up guys with drug problems more than enough to start fights as casually as conversations.

“He ain't, he's looking at your brother. And the kid's looking right back.” Joe corrects, a hint of jealousy filtering through the plastic concern of his voice. His gaze is trained on Merle's younger brother, quietly sipping his beer on the stool to Merle's right and exchanging heated looks with the man on the other side of the room. Joe conceals a growl at the sight, fingers tightening possessively around the glass he's been scrubbing for the past five minutes.

Merle huffs, shifting his gaze from the leather-clad man to the naked interest painted across his brother's face just in time to catch sight of Daryl's tongue as it glides along his bottom lip in what Merle assumes to be a seductive display. The older Dixon rolls his eyes and cuffs the back of his brother's head to get his attention, narrowed blue eyes instantly snapping to his face with a warning glare. Merle challenges it with one of his own, nodding towards the bar in a silent request for his brother to turn in that direction and ignore the tall guy currently looking him up from the other side of the room. Daryl snorts in true Dixon fashion before setting his beer down on the counter and getting up, managing to get approximately one and a half steps in before his brother's arm shoots out and grabs his, tugging him back towards the bar to bark in his ear.

“And where the fuck is it you think you're going, little brother?” Merle asks through clenched teeth, his grip on Daryl's arm unforgiving as he levels him with a stone-cold glare, the very one that used to make him burst into tears whenever he did something wrong – when he was five and easily impressionable, that is. Now, at the ripe age of twenty-two, it just makes him smirk and want to disobey him even more.

“I can take care of myself, Merle.” Daryl bites back, exasperation oozing from his words and the unimpressed stare he shoots his brother as he yanks his arm out of the older man's near-painful grip. He looks both pissed off and amused, an unusual blend of emotions for anyone else but Merle, seeing as it's the kind of behavior he's the most used to when it comes to his little brother, and has been ever since the boy entered puberty about ten years back.

“Exactly. So why don't you go home and do just that instead of going over there and doing _that_?” Merle points at the guy and illustrates his words with a couple of crude hand gestures, making sure to show Daryl just how he feels about the man his brother has been making googley eyes at for the better part of the evening. Merle doesn't trust him as far as he can throw him and would very much appreciate if his little brother could take a goddamn hint for once and stay in his lane like the obedient little boy he used to be. Years ago. When he couldn't walk, talk, or feed himself.

But instead of doing what Merle desperately wants him to, Daryl decides to laugh in his face, flip him off and tell him he'll see him in the morning before making his way over to the other end of the bar. Merle watches him pull up a chair and sit down next to Tall, Dark, and Handsome, a conversation sparking up between the two almost instantly – that fact alone literally screaming bullshit because Daryl doesn't talk, let alone laugh with people. Which, coincidentally, seems to be exactly what he's doing right now, judging by the little smirk Merle can see curling around the corners of Daryl's mouth. Merle makes a gagging sound before turning his back to his little brother's disgusting flirting session, even though it looks a lot like what he would do and Merle feels a strange sense of pride swelling somewhere in his chest in consequence – which he pointedly chooses to ignore as he orders another beer.

\---

“This seat taken?” Daryl asks the man in the leather jacket as he steals a chair from a nearby table, barely waiting for him to nod before he sits down right beside him, their knees touching beneath the table as he makes himself comfortable in his seat. The other man directs a little smile his way, which Daryl returns with an enigmatic little smirk as he lets his eyes travel over the man's form, taking in every detail he wasn't able to see from his vantage point by the bar earlier.

“Hi. I'm Negan.” The man supplies with a toothy grin, the dangerous show of teeth softened by the openness of his eyes as he tilts his head and looks up at Daryl through short, dark lashes. He looks both charming and intimidating like this, the overhead lighting casting shadows on his face in a hypnotic display.

“Name's Daryl.” The corners of Daryl's mouth turn up in a small, appreciative smile as dark blue eyes meet whiskey colored ones, feral and searching crashing together to explode into tiny pinpricks of electricity between them – goosebumps erupting all over Daryl's skin as those dark amber orbs flicker from his eyes to his lips for a fraction of a second.

“Yeah, I know who you are. You're Merle Dixon's little brother.” Negan's smile never leaves his face, except it no longer is the pleasant, seductive grin it was when Daryl first sat down but has turned into an arrogant little tilt of his lips, like he's got the younger man all figured out and laid out on a platter for him to dig in. Which, in itself, isn't that far from the truth, but still manages to rub Daryl the wrong way enough for him to react.

“That ain't all I am.” Daryl snaps, deep blue eyes narrowing significantly as he stares the other man down, challenging him to speak his mind about him or his brother and turn this potential hook-up into a potential hospital stay.

“Trust me, I know. If that were the case I doubt you'd be willing to sit at my table right now.” Negan jokes, the smug upturn of his lips quickly replaced by a quiet rumble of a laugh, the sudden change in attitude throwing Daryl off a little but making him relax nonetheless, his eyes no longer narrowed in suspicion but with interest instead.

“Yeah, looks like my brother don't like you much. What's up with that?” Daryl inquires, his tone void of any accusations as his voice drops low and secretive. He sounds curious, and he scoots a little closer to keep the conversation private, the movement barely noticeable by the people surrounding them but definitely unmistakable for the man sitting next to him.

“I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say big brother complex.” Negan smirks, obviously pleased with himself, and Daryl actually chuckles at that, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes giving him a boyish look. Something flashes in Negan's eyes at the sight, a glimmer of interest laced with danger, and Daryl bites his lip and bumps their shoulders together just to see it flicker again.

“That ain't what I meant, dumbass. What's his beef with you?” Daryl hides his smile behind the back of his hand, the side of his mouth still in plain view of Negan as he worries his lower lip between his teeth seductively. Daryl catches Negan's gaze straying from his eyes to his lips again, and he finds himself biting down a little harder to make the flesh even redder, watching as the other man's pupils expand and swallow the warm brown surrounding them in a sea of black.

“Pretty sure it's 'cause I look at you a little too much for his taste.” Negan's smile turns feral then, teeth showing and ready to rip him apart as his heated gaze roams over Daryl's body suggestively, making the hairs at the base of Daryl's neck stand on end. Negan moves closer, practically pressed to Daryl's side as he leans in and whispers in his ear, “Wanna get out of here?”

\---

To say the sex was good would be an understatement. Scratch that, saying the sex was _good_ would be a downright _lie_ , because Daryl may not have had an incredible amount of experience in that particular department but the fact that he felt pretty close to passing out when he came the first time – out of three, if his sex-dazed memory serves him right – was good enough of an indication that the sex was not just _good_ , but utterly and completely _amazing_. To him, at least. The sex was so phenomenal in fact that Daryl ended up limping for three days afterward, still feeling it in his _bones_ during the fourth and itching to do it again by the fifth. And the sixth. And the seventh. And the eighth, during which he has to remind himself that it was a one night stand and that it will – sadly – never happen again, because Daryl isn't about to break his rules for that guy. Even if his mouth felt like heaven, his hands like the fluffy clouds surrounding it and his dick like the fiery pits of hell Daryl can _still_ feel in his loins over a week after, on his way to the car dealership to finally get rid of his piece of shit truck and find a fully functional replacement.

Out of all the things Daryl expects when he gets there – including the possibility of having to sell his least useful organs on the black market in ways of payment – seeing Negan isn't one of them. Having Negan sell him a new truck isn't one of them either. That, and being roped into going to dinner with him that very night, all in the span of a very short half hour. The one thing Daryl expects, however, is how far from shy Negan is about admitting he wants a repeat of the other night – or reminding Daryl of what he's capable of in the bedroom. In very graphic detail, whispered against the shell of his ear before giving him a little demo right there in the cab of the truck by running his lips, tongue, and teeth over the expanse of Daryl's throat – which, in retrospect, is the sole reason why the younger man actually agrees to go out with him that night. That, and the perspective of another mind-blowing orgasm (or three).

They meet at a small Italian restaurant down the street from Joe's bar, and although Daryl wants nothing more than to speed through dinner and retreat to wherever they're gonna spend the night, Negan decides otherwise. He makes sure they both order a three-course meal and talk all the way through, and only decides to leave after having convinced Daryl to agree to a second dinner date later that week. By the time they step out of the restaurant and reach the parking lot, Daryl is itching for something a whole lot different than the simple goodnight kiss Negan is offering him and makes sure his feelings about the matter are _explicit_ as he grabs the collar of the other man's leather jacket and turns the kiss into something a lot less innocent than what was initially intended.

“Someone's in a hurry. There a fire in your pants that needs quenching, sweetheart?” Negan purrs against Daryl's skin, lips straying to find a path from the corner of Daryl's mouth to a spot just below his ear, tongue peeking out to trace the shell and teeth showing to graze and bite down on the lobe, tugging just enough to rip a wanton moan right out of Daryl's throat along with a self-satisfied chuckle out of his own.

“Anything other than bullshit ever come out of your mouth?” Daryl asks between quiet little pants and with no real animosity to his words, eyes fluttering closed as his fingers both tighten in the collar of Negan's jacket and mess up his artfully slicked back hair, the wild man he knows lies just beneath the surface coming out to play with a few playful nips to Daryl's bared throat.

“Occasionally. Testing out how comfortable that shiny new front seat of yours is sound like bullshit to you?” Negan whispers, the words alone raising goosebumps on Daryl's skin as he registers their meaning, his breathing speeding up at the thought. Negan straightens up just enough to throw a wolfish grin Daryl's way, his dark eyes finding the younger man's just in time to witness the disappearance of any and all of the remaining sea blue along with all of Daryl's inhibitions.

“Can't argue with that. Let's hop in and find out, big guy.”

\---

The silence is heavy between them when Daryl trails off with a distant look on his face, his features tight with an emotion Rick can't quite decipher just by looking at him, despite the fact that his eyes have been practically glued to Daryl's ever since he started speaking, ten minutes ago. The cracks in Daryl's face seem to be deepening for a split second before going back to normal – or as normal as they ever were to begin with. There's a haunted look in his eyes that makes them look even more deep-set and narrowed, increasing his dark circles tenfold and turning his already pale complexion into something even ashier and reminiscent of decay. His jaw is set, and Rick is pretty sure he can hear what's left of his teeth grinding as his crumbling hands tighten into fists on his lap, broken nails digging into his palms and bleeding them black. Rick swallows at the sight, his gaze moving back to Daryl's face as he lets his curiosity get the best of him.

“And then?” Rick presses, so low and careful he's not even sure Daryl even heard him. Silence falls over them again, and he gives it two minutes before he hears himself try again, voice raw from the time he spent listening to the other man's story, “Then what happened?”

“Don't.” Daryl cuts in, his tone decisive and the grind of his rotting teeth even louder in the quiet isolation of the room. His expression hardens further, brows knitting together in a frown Rick is way too familiar with not to recognize by now. The atmosphere changes from what felt almost light-hearted in comparison to their usual encounters to something both terrifying and deceptively calm in regards to what Rick is used to, the blood that had stopped dripping from the walls now pouring scarlet-colored torrents down the wallpaper – thick, heavy, and suffocating in its intensity.

“Daryl–,” Rick barely recognizes his own voice, hints of panic filtering through it in ways he's never heard before. He can feel his heart rate speed up, his own blood pumping in his ears like the adrenaline currently burning its way through his veins, and if his body wasn't tense before, it is now. His fingers tighten around the book previously abandoned in his lap, crumpling the pages just so he can anchor himself to something real and physical instead of the maddening back and forth of Daryl's emotions.

“Just don't, okay? Don't ask me about it anymore unless I'm the one bringing it up. And even then, just... Let me do things my way.” Daryl finally breathes, the tension in the room dropping violently as the bloody well on the wall dries up, only to leave behind stains Rick knows won't be there tomorrow no matter how glaring they are right now, sinewy shapes of carmine there to both witness and haunt his dreams – just like their creator as he lies next to Rick.

“Okay. Fair enough. I'll just... Yeah.” The words barely leave Rick's mouth he's so distressed, the remnants of his fear rattling through his bones in the same way his own breathing rattles through his lungs – so unsteadily he fears his own body might give up on him if anything jostles him enough. He manages to take a deep enough breath to partially calm his nerves, shaky hands dropping the book he was clutching onto the small table next to his bed before he speaks again, “I'm gonna try and get some sleep. You... You can stay, if you want.”

Rick expects to regret his words the moment they leave his mouth, but to his surprise, he doesn't. Because when he switches off the bedside lamp and turns on his side, his cornflower blue eyes meet Daryl's gunmetal grays in the faint glow of the moonlight from where the blinds aren't properly shut, and a thousand _I'm sorry_ 's written on a looking glass wouldn't add up to the amount of regret he sees painted all over the other man's ashen face. Rick's smile is brief and barely there as he acknowledges Daryl's apology, his hand reaching out with a mind of its own to touch the very tips of his fingers to Daryl's, the contact alone enough to take away the leftover dread lingering beneath his skin. He closes his eyes then, his body relaxing into the mattress as he feels himself slowly ebb away into unconsciousness.

When he comes to, the side of the bed where he foolishly expects Daryl to be feels unnaturally cold to the touch and appears undoubtedly empty, save for the rumpled sheets and the faint indent in the pillow.

The smell of copper clings to the pillowcase as Rick brings it to his chest.


	6. Trade Your Dark in for the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first time i don't have to apologize for taking forever to update this fic and i feel like i deserve some kind of reward for that because 4 days is kind of a big deal... right?  
> as always, many thanks to [KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic) for beta-ing this fic and just existing in general ♥

Rick is an idiot.

At least that's what Daryl has been telling himself for months, ever since the guy decided to move into _his_ house and start cooking in _his_ kitchen. It's not that he's bad at it, because he's not. He's a pretty decent cook, his food always comes out somewhat edible and he makes sure to shake things up every now and then so he doesn't always eat the same damn thing. No, Rick is an idiot because he _always_ manages to get distracted while he's cooking, resulting in Daryl having to take over before the whole house burns down. _Again._

And that is exactly what's happening in this very moment, since Rick ended up getting a call from one of his co-workers – Maggie, if Daryl heard correctly – right in the middle of making dinner and has been blabbing on the phone for over ten minutes now, during which Daryl had to swoop in and flip his steak before the damn thing caught fire and took the whole kitchen with it. And add seasoning, because it is _beyond him_ how Rick can eat meat that's so bland it makes Daryl's skin crawl – not that he can actually taste it. But the sight of a perfectly good steak without any kind of herbs on top makes him want to roll his eyes so hard they'd threaten to pop out of his technically non-existing skull.

When Rick finally hangs up, he has the gall to look surprised to find a plate full of food along with a freshly opened bottle of Pinot Noir waiting for him on the kitchen table. He furrows his brow, seemingly trying to recall when exactly he found the time to finish making dinner and pour himself a glass of wine before his phone rang, and Daryl has to resist facepalming because that man is an _idiot_ and he can't believe he's stuck living with _him_ of all people. So Daryl announces his presence by clearing his throat and moving Rick's chair for him, making sure to shoot him a look that says “you're the most helpless person I have ever met in my entire existence and you should be glad I'm here to save your ass from certain death.” When Rick's gaze snaps to him, a mixture of surprise and something that looks a lot like happiness crosses his features, the look alone enough to make Daryl's composure crumble and a small smile tug at the corners of his cracked lips. A slow grin stretches the sides of Rick's mouth at the sight, and he gives Daryl a quick nod before sitting down, motioning for the other man to take a seat before he starts digging in.

“Jesus, that is _so_ good.” Rick manages to say between bites, a perfect picture of both pleasure and starvation as he eagerly takes the food apart and shovels it in his mouth. He looks happy, the usual tiredness of his features replaced by an air of relaxation that Daryl finds both all too rare and far too precious.

“See? I don't even eat and I still manage to cook better than you. You're a lost cause, Grimes.” Daryl teases, a little smirk curling around the corners of his lips as he rests his head in the palm of his hand, keen eyes watching Rick as he eats with the hunger of an army of battle-weary men. This is kind of their ritual now, the both of them sitting together at the kitchen table as Rick eats dinner and tells Daryl about his day – Daryl more than content to sit back and listen to whatever the other man has to say, almost too eager to hear about the outside world he no longer has access to.

“Thanks, Daryl. Don't know what I'd do without you.” The words are spoken between two bites but manage to sound honest enough for Daryl to drop Rick's gaze and huff, still uncomfortable with compliments no matter how many months they've spent together in the house. Rick doesn't take offense, simply smiles and shrugs it off by telling Daryl about something that happened at work today, which Daryl learns was the reason Maggie called earlier.

Daryl listens, longing for more than just glimpses of Rick's life outside of this wretched house.

\---

They have a routine in place, now. Daryl stays with Rick during his meals, helps around the house – or tries not to make a mess when something frustrates him and ends up cleaning up after himself when he does – and sometimes they find themselves watching TV together or sitting side by side in silence while Rick reads. They're used to each other by now, like two roommates who were reluctant to live together at first but have since gotten accustomed to the other person's quirks. Daryl tries not to get in Rick's way too much, helps him find things – like his car keys – whenever he misplaces them but otherwise stays relatively hidden so Rick doesn't feel like he's suffocating him. He doesn't speak much (Rick does most of the talking) and tries to leave Rick to his own devices as much as he can, but sometimes it can prove difficult for him to put distance between them because of the limited amount of things he can do besides watch Rick's every move – and he's been told that it's creepy. Numerous times. On a lot of different occasions.

It is now only natural for Daryl to know Rick's schedule like the back of his hand, and for him to get anxious when Rick does something Daryl's not used to. Like when he takes Carl places, sometimes even stays over at Lori's to have dinner after dropping him off or goes out for a drink with Michonne after work. Daryl no longer fusses when Rick goes out shopping when he's running out of groceries, only bites back his “what about me?” and tells him to be safe and sometimes asks him to buy a particular brand of beer so Daryl can stare at it and wish he could have one. Rick always laughs at that, a sound Daryl used to get angry at but now finds endearing, because Rick is not making fun of him in a bad way, just finds it amusing that Daryl would be so attached to something as silly as an obscure brand of beer. Daryl never mentions that it was Negan's favorite and he just happened to fall in love with it just like he fell in love with the man himself. Unexpectedly and beyond all reason.

So it comes as a bit of a surprise when Rick actually bothers to get out of his old Police Academy tee-shirt and sweatpants and put on some clothes when his day off rolls around. Daryl doesn't read too much into it, maybe this time Rick didn't wait for Daryl to make a remark about the smell before deciding to give them a wash, or maybe he just felt like putting on some real clothes. But when Rick starts fiddling with his hair in the mirror of the lobby and grabs for his shoes, Daryl frowns and peeks at the calendar hung up in the kitchen, only to find it void of any useful information. He backtracks to the entryway just in time to see Rick throw his jacket on and pat every single one of his pockets in search of his keys, which he eventually finds dangling from the hook Daryl made him buy the week before so Rick wouldn't have to call for him whenever he couldn't find them. Daryl makes himself known with a soft scratch of his fingernails on the wall, Rick's surprised gaze snapping up to his instantly.

“You ain't working today. Where're you headed?” Daryl asks, a small frown distorting his otherwise normal features. He's looking better now (by human standards at least), less ghostly and a whole lot more alive than he used to when Rick first saw him. The cracks in his skin are mostly gone and his complexion is no longer as gray as it used to be, even though he's still pretty pale. His eyes are still the same shade of silver they always were since he woke up in this house – albeit maybe a little lighter and with a hint of blue when he smiles – and his hair is still long, unruly, and much darker than it was before he died. But all in all, his appearance alone no longer scares the hell out of Rick.

“I'm just grabbing coffee with Glenn, I'll be back in a couple hours.” Rick sounds casual, even throws a smile Daryl's way and if the reason he does so is to soften the blow, it's not working. He seems to sense that, his head tilting to the side in order to assess Daryl's reaction better as he watches the man's frown deepen in front of his eyes.

“He can come here. There's coffee here.” Daryl retorts, and it's not so much a suggestion but a demand, his otherwise unmarred skin cracking right above his left eye as his irises revert back to the dark and empty gunmetal gray Rick knows all too well by now. Rick is too focused on him to not have noticed, but there isn't a hint of give in his voice when he speaks again.

“I know that.” Rick says flatly, staring right back at Daryl and watching his emotions come alive in gruesome fractures all over his face and neck. They're not deep – not yet – and not as dark and alarming as they were when Rick first laid eyes on him, but they mean something and even though Rick aches to help Daryl, he swallows his instincts and stands his ground.

“Then why–,” Daryl tries, but Rick cuts him off with a sigh. Daryl closes his mouth as soon as he hears the sound leave Rick's lips and finds himself looking at the human embodiment of a wall when Rick chooses to break eye contact for a second before resuming it, his gaze hard and his eyes darker than Daryl has ever seen them.

“Look, I just gotta get out of here for a bit, okay? All I do lately is go to work, come home, rinse and repeat. I need some fresh air.” Rick sounds fed up, tired even, and normally Daryl wouldn't get angry at him for it but his words are sharp and they cut so deep into Daryl he feels like he's been sliced in half.

“And you think I don't?” Daryl snaps, his voice suddenly louder and angrier than Rick has heard it in weeks. They watch each other like a pair of rival lions waiting to strike, and if Daryl's eyes looked strange before, it's nothing compared to the way they look now – like something dark, twisted, and so obviously inhuman Rick wonders how crazy he was to think he could live with this man and be safe. When Daryl speaks again, his voice sounds even worse than it did that first night and a shiver runs through Rick with every other word, “You really think staying here forever is what I want? You think I don't miss going outside, seeing people, being _alive_? I'm going crazy in here, Rick! Maybe you can up and leave whenever you fucking please but I _can't._ I can't leave here and when you go it's just me and these four walls and it's so fucking lonely it makes me want to trash everything so I don't have to look at the same damn furniture every second of every day and be reminded that I died here because I was too stupid to get out while I still could. Now I'm stuck in the one place I never wanted to see again and there's no going back from that!”

It feels as if bits and pieces of Daryl's frustration are pouring out of his mouth with every word, smoky tendrils of anger spiraling around him and wrapping him in a cocoon of fury. He's blinded by his own rage and he knows he's reverting back to his old self but he can't stop, not when he can feel his skin pulling apart to bleed out the violence buried deep in his bones and see fear slowly cloaking the mask of bravery Rick forces himself to wear when he's like this. Daryl can barely register what's happening, can hardly feel the house shaking with his sorrow and the weight of his despair, can't even hear what Rick is saying – no, screaming – to him, only stare at the look of horror on his face until–

Until he hears it, something shattering on the hardwood floor in the most horrifying replica of the worst – and last – day of his life. Everything stops at once: the trembling of the walls, the splitting of his skin, the screams of terror ripping their way out of Rick's throat. All that's left is silence, the kind of quiet wars leave behind after ravaging entire civilizations and watching them crumble back to the dust they were built from. It's merciless, and if there were any blood left in Daryl it would turn solid from the cold surrounding him in that instant. He's petrified, his gaze fixated on the source of the bone-chilling sound that brought him out of his trance, and when Rick sees it an echo of the first glimpse Daryl gave him of the day he died plays behind his eyelids. He remembers the glass ashtray falling from the chest of drawers and breaking into a thousand shards at Negan's feet. However, this time it's not an ashtray that's lying in pieces on the floor.

It's a picture frame, and where a photograph of Carl should be, one of Negan and Daryl awaits instead.

\---

Rick barely gets a glimpse of it before the picture burns away to nothing, shrinking back on itself until all that's left are the tall trees of the National Park along with his son's grinning face. All he could see was a pair of matching smiles and nothing more than a shared look of complicity between the two men. When Rick's gaze snaps back to Daryl, he is completely immobile in front of him. He looks like a still from a movie, his shoulders unmoving, undisturbed by breaths he no longer needs to take. His eyes are both focused and unfocused, fixated on the shattered frame lying at his feet without really seeing it, memories of blood-stained glass flashing before his eyes in the angry swirls of a 35mm film. Everything about him leaves Rick painfully aware of how lost Daryl really is, of how much anger there still is inside of him and how impossible the idea of saving him feels.

It doesn't mean Rick won't try.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Rick puts his fear aside enough to breach the distance between him and Daryl, only stopping to avoid crushing the glass even further. He reaches out, slipping his hand into Daryl's and enclosing it protectively between his fingers, squeezing once to get the other man's attention. Daryl's head lifts up slowly, just enough for Rick to catch his gaze and try and convey feelings he's not even sure of. He wants Daryl to know he's not alone, that Rick will stay for as long as Daryl will let him and not a minute less. He wants Daryl to believe in him when he says he'll do his best to help him, and he wants Daryl to accept that and _let_ him. He wants...

“I want you to focus on me, Daryl. Just me. Not the house, not the picture. Me. Can you do that?” Rick whispers, his voice as soothing as he can make it even though it sounds unbelievably rough to his own ears after all the screaming he'd done to try and stop Daryl from destroying the house – and themselves – only a few minutes ago.

There's no verbal response on Daryl's part, just a barely perceptible nod of his head right before he wills his eyes to focus on Rick, and Rick alone. It's enough of an answer for Rick, and he immediately starts moving back towards the front door, his hand still laced with Daryl's and their eyes never breaking contact, even when they cross the threshold and Rick has to swallow the lump of doubt he feels forming in his already sore throat. He vaguely expects Daryl to waste away from the moment he steps foot outside, to find his way to where he truly belongs and should already be – but none of that happens. What Rick witnesses instead is the pure shock on Daryl's face when his feet make contact with the gravel that makes up the driveway a little ways away from the wrap-around porch, and the sudden realization of where he is and where they are going when he feels the once so familiar feel of grass crunching beneath his boots.

When they finally reach the forest, nothing about Daryl is the same. He looks transformed, not a hint of a fracture on his porcelain skin and his eyes shine bluer than Rick has ever seen them, like beacons of the leftover innocence that lay dormant inside of Daryl for as long as Rick has known him. Everything about him feels _alive,_ from the slow smile stretching his lips to the feel of his hand in Rick's, slowly warming up from the shy rays of the sun peeking through the heavy foliage of the woods. He looks like he's glowing from the inside out, his usually ashy, almost black hair shining chestnut where the shade of the leaves doesn't obscure it, his skin still somewhat translucent but so much more golden than the gray tones Rick is used to. He never lets go of Rick's hand as he goes from tree to tree, feeling the rough bark beneath his palm and breathing in – actually breathing – the scent of pine trees and overgrown grass, his fingers curling around Rick's as he walks in circles to get a good look at each and every leaf he can lay his eyes on. He looks free, like he belongs.

He looks beautiful, and Rick suddenly realizes that the pounding in his ears is nothing but the sound of his own heart finally coming alive at the sight.


	7. War of Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so idk if anyone is still reading this but here i am, 9 months later, continuing this and hoping i'm not alone for the ride  
> thanks to [KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic) for beta-ing this as per usual
> 
> also have a list of flowers featured in this chapter and their meaning bc why not:  
> carnation, striped – sorry i can't be with you, wish i could be with you  
> carnation, red – my heart aches for you  
> carnation, pink – i'll never forget you  
> camellia, pink – longing for you  
> camellia, red – you're a flame in my heart
> 
> (i also added floral meaning to the beginning notes of chapter 2)

Life feels different now. Like something has shifted, not apart but rather into place – like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle slowly finding ways to slot together despite how jagged their edges are. Daryl isn't as prone to outbursts as he used to be now that he can actually leave the house – albeit never alone, his body vanishing like smoke the moment Rick lets go of his hand whenever they step foot outside the property. He always finds himself right back where he started, in the same exact spot he woke up in the day after his death – just a couple of feet away from the fireplace. It frustrates him to no end, even more so when he catches a glance of Rick's confused frown when he starts realizing that the choice of location represents both Daryl's lack of control and a pattern. Not that Daryl would give him any hints as to the real meaning behind this partially involuntary reoccurrence.

They never talk about it. Rick walks back to the house with little to no regard as to how far they have gone this time and they try again, Daryl's hand firmly clasped in Rick's as they make their way down the driveway and into the woods where Daryl feels most at home. Sometimes they make it to a little clearing where the sun beats down on their backs and colors Rick's nape a dark caramel. Other times they stumble upon different parts of the river that runs a little deeper into the woods, and on good days they even get a glimpse of the water hole it leads to. Then there are the times when they don't get far at all, just barely past the tree line on the edge of the property where it gets hard for Daryl to concentrate and keep himself materialized enough to focus on Rick's hand wrapped around his own.

As skewed as his perception might be, Daryl knows Rick is doing all of this for him and has yet to reap the benefits of his selflessness, in whatever form Daryl might be willing to give them. They might not talk about whatever force compels Daryl to reappear in the same spot over and over again, but they do talk about other things and their relationship seems to have improved for it. They spend more time together, whether it be outside or inside the house, and Daryl is slowly but steadily starting to open up – both about himself and about whatever it is that is happening between them. Because there is something there, both in the sound of their voices when they speak to each other and in the comfortable silence that settles over them when they sit beside one another at night.

It's like being able to step outside has unlocked something in Daryl, something that was either forgotten or buried deep enough to ignore successfully for the decade he spent haunting this place. He looks at Rick differently now, no longer afraid of the resemblance he bears to Negan when the lights are dimmed and all Daryl can see is the outline of his face and the fullness of his beard, the blue of his eyes traded for something darker when the shadows creep and the bed creaks with the weight of his body. Daryl no longer avoids Rick when he decides to wear the fitted white tee-shirt that reminds him so much of quiet evenings spent drinking beers on the front porch and watching the sunset from what Daryl used to think was the safest place on earth. In Negan's arms, with Daryl's head resting on his shoulder and his hands lazily stroking the warm skin of Negan's back beneath the thin white cotton of that damned shirt.

Daryl used to loathe those similarities, from the way they both wore their hair swept away from their faces to the way they walked, boasting confidence with every step – but now that he chooses to embrace them, the differences become even more glaring each day, and Daryl isn't sure whether he's too used to who Negan _was_ to truly appreciate who Rick _is_ or if he's just disappointed that Rick _isn't_ Negan. Which, Daryl has to remind himself, is a twisted way of thinking, and he often feels disgusted with himself whenever he catches a glimpse of Rick walking down the hallway and expects to see Negan there. He knows they're different in every way, and that they don't even look that much alike, but either Daryl is a sick bastard who misses the man who killed him or he's trying to rationalize his feelings for Rick by projecting them onto the image of Negan he conjures up whenever he tries to remind himself of a time when he actually knew what happiness felt like.

He knows none of this is fair – not to himself and especially not to Rick – and that Rick is trying his best to make him feel better about his situation, to make him _happy,_ but Daryl can't help the fact that all he knows how to do these days is run away from his feelings. Feelings he often sees reflected in Rick's eyes whenever he looks at him a certain way – because yes, Daryl might be avoiding his own, but he would have to be blind not to notice Rick's. And so he runs away from them, too, because he knows it's only a matter of time before the sparks catch on fire and take them both down with them. Just like they did way back when he met Negan, only for him to throw gasoline on the flames and watch them consume Daryl until there was nothing left except for the charred remains of his heart.

And the way Rick's fingers twist around his when they lay beside one another at night only makes the warmth in the center of his chest harder to ignore.

\---

Rick is quite the sight in the morning. Sprawled out in bed, with only the barest hint of sunlight filtering through the blinds, barely enough to highlight the disarray of his curls as they spread out on his pillow, as well as the silvery strands of his beard which is becoming more salt than pepper with each passing day. The serene look on his face smoothes out the wrinkles on his forehead and the crows' feet in the corners of his eyes, and he looks at peace like this, free from all the fear and anguish he's been experiencing ever since he moved in what used to be Daryl's home – and is now only a ghost of what it used to be, just like Daryl. Here, like this, he's not plagued by dark thoughts, doesn't have to worry about his unconventional roommate's temper or the consequences said temper could have on him.

No. He looks calm, undisturbed, and utterly beautiful, and Daryl wants nothing more than to kiss him. Kiss him until he awakens and becomes a willing participant of whatever this would be – whatever this could be if only Daryl would _let it_. But he doesn't. He desperately wants to, would even consider it if he thought for one second this would do them any good, but he knows it'll just end up hurting them both in the long run and then they'll be right back to square one. So he holds back, refrains from crossing a line he knows there is no coming back from, and settles for something that only tiptoes alongside it. He runs his fingers through Rick's hair, the smooth curls twisting like vines around his digits, and Daryl feels like he's walking a tightrope with weights on his feet and no net to catch him when he lets his fingertips slide down the side of Rick's face and watches his eyes fall open, like diamonds reflecting his soul in the soft hues of the morning.

There is a small, lazy smile on Rick's lips as he looks up at Daryl, eyes glinting in the faint morning light, and he seems to be picking up on all the signals Daryl is unknowingly sending him when his hand comes up to curl around the other man's nape, molding itself to the slope of Daryl's neck as sleep-warm skin meets cold and lifeless flesh. Then Rick pulls him downward, the touch so gentle it almost feels like gravity if not for the subtle weight of Rick's fingers on the back of his skull, simply coaxing Daryl to lower himself enough for their mouths to meet – only for Daryl to disappear out of thin air seconds before they could make contact, leaving Rick stunned and alone with a tingling sensation on his lips.

Downstairs, Daryl wraps his arms around himself and lets the back of his head hit the wall behind him, a fire crackling to life in the hearth beside him.

\---

The looks Rick keeps giving him are much harder to ignore than Daryl anticipated, but if there is one thing Daryl is good at, it's ignoring things until they go away. Or, in this case, until he's the one going away, making himself scarce the moment Carl steps foot on the property. It's the first time the boy actually gets to see his father's place, and from what Rick told him, he's going to stay there a few days while Lori and Shane are off on a romantic getaway. Rick was ecstatic when he broke the news to Daryl a couple weeks back, already planning on taking his son to the water hole nearby if the weather allowed it, and maybe even go fishing or hunting or whatever fathers did to entertain boys Carl's age. They were going to decorate his room together, eat junk food in front of the TV and probably watch some of the movies Lori thought Carl was still a little too young to see.

Rick had slipped up that day, going on and on about how Daryl was going to love his son and vice versa, before remembering that in order for them to get along, they would have to actually meet – which was still a tender subject on Daryl's part. It wasn't that he didn't want to meet Carl, or anyone else for that matter, the real problem was more along the lines of the level of commitment it would take for Rick to introduce Daryl to his kid, and exactly what Rick could tell him about Daryl. Who was he? How did they meet? Why were they living together and why was Daryl so weird and cryptic and temperamental? Daryl didn't imagine that conversation ending very well, especially given the precarious state of their relationship as of that morning. This would simply have to do for now.

Carl is thrumming like a ball of energy as he runs up the stairs to the porch, barely waiting for his father to catch up and open the front door before he barrels in, kicks his boots off and chucks his jacket as soon as he's able. He starts looking around immediately, pale blue eyes glinting with curiosity as he takes everything in, from the full-scale mirror in the entryway to the giant wooden bookcase in the living room, filled to the brim with books Rick keeps buying Daryl so the younger man isn't too bored whenever Rick is at work. Daryl watches from the corner of the room – carefully hidden from human eyes – as Carl runs his fingers down the colorful spines, seemingly fascinated by one of the thicker volumes Daryl is guilty of having read in less than a day. The boy looks so much like his father Daryl can hardly believe it, especially when Carl stops in front of the fireplace to take a look at the vase Daryl broke months ago, and tilts his head to the side as he considers the bouquet of fresh flowers Daryl placed there that morning – striped carnations, with a couple of red ones peeking through.

“Flowers, dad? Mom won't believe me when I tell her.” Carl chuckles, looking over his shoulder at his father who is standing with his arms crossed in the doorway to the kitchen, where Carl is headed next. He brushes past him, narrowly avoiding Rick's hand as he tries to ruffle his son's overgrown hair, a pleasant smile stretching the corners of his mouth upward. Daryl frowns as he follows them to the kitchen, suddenly struck by the realization that he has hardly ever seen Rick this relaxed.

\---

Carl's room is a blank slate they spend the better part of an afternoon decorating, Rick taking his son to the store to pick everything out on their way back from lunch at a local diner. The boy looks to be at an age when everything should piss him off or at least brush him the wrong way, and yet he keeps surprising Daryl with his laid back, overall positive attitude toward whatever his father proposes they do, always managing to show interest in anything Rick says. Daryl never had that with his old man, all the bastard ever did for him was give him scars, nightmares, and regrets – so when Daryl sees just how much Carl values his father and how much he seems to have missed him these past few months, he can't help but feel a little bitter about the string of abuse that followed him to his grave. Not that he even has one, if not for this house.

Rick spends every waking hour with his son, and more often than not outside the house where Daryl can't follow. He doesn't do it on purpose, at least Daryl doesn't think he does, but it still stings to be constantly left behind by someone who seems to have forgotten his very existence from the moment Carl walked through the threshold. They haven't talked in days, and Daryl has remained hidden at all times so as not to disturb Rick's happiness, or his son's. He just lurks and listens to them talk about all the fish they caught that day or how warm the water was when they went down to the lake for a quick dip – Rick's hair still wet and dripping on the towel wrapped around his shoulders. He sees them hide from the stove when they try to make homemade popcorn one night, and watches them play video games until the early hours of the morning even though they have to get up at the crack of dawn the next day to go to the amusement park together.

Rick is happier than Daryl has ever seen him in all the months they've spent sharing a house. Or maybe that's just what the green-eyed monster sitting on Daryl's shoulder tells him, anyway. He knows he should be glad that Rick is finally getting to spend more time with his son, especially after hearing him complain so much about how fast their biweekly afternoons went by, but he can't help feeling jealous of the bottomless pit of attention Rick seems to have for his son – especially when there isn't any left for him. But Daryl was never a selfish man, even when he was alive, so he just leaves pink and red carnations on the mantelpiece in hopes that Rick will notice. And when he doesn't, Daryl just hangs his head and retreats to the darkest corners of the house, waiting for a time when Rick will.

That time comes later than Daryl expected. By the time Rick acknowledges his absence, Carl has already been gone a few days and Rick has come and gone from work a couple of times without anyone seeing him to the door or sitting in the chair opposite him at breakfast. So when he leaves for work the next morning, he takes the time to write a few words on the mirror before shrugging his jacket on and locking the door behind him. Daryl watches his retreating back from the living room window, noting how long Rick's curls have gotten, and he stays rooted to the spot as he waits for the car to make a turn at the end of the road and disappear from view before he decides to take a look at what Rick left for him on the looking glass. Daryl half expects an apology to appear in front of him, just like that time when Rick found out about who Daryl really was and went too far with his questions – but that's not what's waiting for him when he blows on the glass and Rick's handwriting becomes visible.

_MISS YOU._

If Daryl were still human, he's pretty sure he would have stopped breathing the moment the words appeared on the surface of the mirror. But he isn't, and he doesn't, so instead he finds himself staring at the letters until they fade away like they were never there to begin with. They're simple words, and Daryl knows enough about Rick to know they're true, but also thinly veiled, like he wanted to say something else but refrained from doing so. Daryl has a vague idea of what that something else could be, and even though he tells himself not to dwell on it, that's exactly what he ends up doing for the remainder of the day, curled up in Rick's spot on the couch with a book lying forgotten on the coffee table in front of him. Which he forgets to put back in its place at the end of the day when he disappears as soon as he hears Rick's keys jostle on the other side of the front door, Rick's puzzled look at the sight of the thick paperback reminding Daryl of how foolish hiding from him is.

So when the morning comes, he swallows his jilted feelings and stops hiding. He ignores the giant pit of nervousness he feels growing in his stomach and joins Rick in his bed, careful not to wake him as he braces himself on his elbows next to him and takes in the serenity of his expression once again. Daryl's hand finds its way to Rick's face without him noticing, fingers combing through the curls atop his head with a gentleness Daryl has hardly ever found himself capable of, and this time when Rick's eyelids flutter open, Daryl doesn't shy away from the ocean blues they reveal. Instead, he drinks them in like a man dying of thirst would an oasis, and when he finally realizes that they shine just as bright as they did when Carl was there, he lets himself be pulled forward by the familiar hand he feels draped over the back of his neck and surrenders to the embrace of Rick's lips against his own.

Warmth spreads through his skin from that one point of contact, seeping into his bones and wrapping around his heart, and it _burns_ , it burns so much Daryl feels like he might die all over again, and yet he feels as helpless as a moth drawn to a flame when he straddles Rick and wordlessly asks for more. Rick welcomes him with open arms, a hand tightly fisted in Daryl's hair as the slow push and pull of their lips morphs into something a little more passionate – almost urgent in its intensity. Daryl finds purchase in the thick locks of hair lining the pillow as he conquers and lets himself be conquered, Rick's free hand closing around his hip just as his mouth closes around Daryl's tongue, pulling him in and trapping him in the space between his arms as well as the one surrounding his heart.

With his eyes closed and his body blissfully warmed up by Rick's body heat, Daryl finds it difficult to stop and remind himself that even though he doesn't need to breathe anymore, Rick does. So he forces himself to break the kiss, pulling back enough to take in the cherry-red tint of Rick's lips and the darkness obscuring his otherwise bright eyes, and feels his resolve crumbling under him when Rick reaches for him and crashes their mouths together with abandon. Daryl gives in to Rick's touch as if he were born to do so, his body singing in tune with the melody of Rick's hands as they run through his hair and down the curve of his back – everywhere and nowhere at once – and Daryl has never felt as alive as he does now that he's dead and consumed by thoughts of heat, complacency, and something that reminds him of rainy days spent between the sheets and feels a lot like _love_.

 _Camellias would look gorgeous on the fireplace_ , Daryl thinks as he lets himself be taken apart by Rick's lips against his own.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @[serenalunera](http://serenalunera.tumblr.com)


End file.
